


Beards of a feather flock together

by Mothfluff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale has a beard, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Other, and his beard, inspired by Michale Sheen's own glorious facial hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24402841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: “Angel.” Crowley cuts through the babbling with almost a bit of dread in his voice. “Did you shave your head? Is that what you're trying to say?”“Oh gosh, no, nothing that extreme! Really, would you actually believe me to do that? I know you like your hair changed every few years or so, but I-”“What did you do, then? What did Holly and her shaved head inspire you to do?”Another round of silence on both ends of the line. Crowley prepares himself for the worst, though he has no idea what that would be.“I've grown a beard.” Aziraphale almost whispers.“You what?”“I've grown a beard!” He repeats, a tad louder. “I've always wondered – there's barely any angels with facial hair, and you used to have those- I just had no idea what I might look like with one, and I thought, if not now-”“And?”“And what?” Aziraphale huffs.“What do you look like?” Crowley's grin is mischievous, and his voice really shouldn't sound like this, but he can't help the teasing as he rubs across his own beard, still not vanished away by miracle.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 123





	Beards of a feather flock together

**Author's Note:**

> (This is basically an extremely random non-story simply because I couldn't stop thinking about the ineffable husbands with the beards of their actors. That is all.)

Crowley is using the lockdown efficiently, he thinks, to experiment with facial hair, like all the humans seem to be doing.

He knows he doesn’t technically need the excuse of ‘nobody will see me for a while, so I can let my beard grow out and play around with it’. He knows that he is using miracles for it anyway, and could do it any day and have it disappear and reappear instantaneously.

He knows that. He’s still using the lockdown as an excuse. He’s absolutely not above lying to himself, or making up explanations that sound far more plausible than “I was being extremely bored and had told Aziraphale I was going to sleep so I couldn’t even bother him without exposing that as a blatant lie to avoid being honest about wanting to come over to his place”. There's only so many times you can scream at plants and clean the entire flat top to bottom before you end up at this level of boredom, which was usually interrupted by a particularly wine-laden dinner or a quick run-in at a park, both out of the question now as well.

And so, Crowley is experimenting with facial hair this afternoon. He’s not done it a lot before, to be honest. Oh sure, he’s changed his hairstyle almost as often as his gender, if not even more, and he’s had the rare moustache when human fashion called for it, but he’s never kept any kind of beard for longer than absolutely necessary. He wonders why.

Seeing himself in the mirror, he realises why.

He’s decided to re-visit some old styles at first, but brushing along the small tuft of hair on his chin, all he can think about is the reactions he’d last gotten for it. Some drunkard in a tavern had compared it to a goat, he remembered, and Aziraphale next to him had giggled. _Giggled_. It had not felt good.

An angry snap of fingers later, and an equally troublesome moustache is staring at him in the mirror. He wonders if it had maybe been the glasses that had put this particular ensemble together decades ago, or the shirt, but he knows neither of it had been able to save him back then, and nothing was able to save him from it right now. At least this time around there is no angel to tell him that it seems less reminiscent of some movie stars and more of a dead member of his beloved rat army.

Snap after snap after snap, the dark red patches across his face change from bad to horrid to absolutely unmentionable, and his patience grows thinner than it has ever been before, and it's been pretty much at the level of a piece of rice paper for several centuries.

One last snap leaves him with just a regular, run-of-the-mill full beard, slightly darker than his normal hair, but styled just as meticulously. He runs his fingers through it, feeling the soft rasp along his hand.

“That's not half bad.” He reasons to his reflection. Not something he's going to go outside with any time soon (he's not going out anyway, but, just as a general point), but not so bad he'd have to fear more unwanted comments or giggles from certain blonde, one-style-fits-all-centuries angel.  
  
  


  
The phone rings. He swirls around and almost races towards the ~~throne room~~ office, but remembers quickly enough that he's supposed to be asleep and not ready to answer the phone after the first ring.

He's allowed to pick it up before it goes to the answering machine, though, right?

“What.” He grumbles, hoping it sounds sufficiently drowsy and just-woke-up-ish.

“Oh, my dear, I'm terribly sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“Told you I was gonna sleep.”

“Yes, I know. I only wanted to check. I thought I would get that horrid machine, anyway.”

“Why d'you need to check, then?”

“Well.” Quiet rummaging, shuffling. Crowley can see Aziraphale adjusting his waistcoat before his inner eye. “It's recommended.”

“What is?”

“Checking in on-” A soft pause. “Friends and family. Keeping in touch. You know.”

“Ah.” Is all he can manage to answer, which is not exactly anything, so the line stays quiet for a while.

Quite a while.

  
  


“Well, I shouldn't be keeping you from your sleep-” is said at the exact same second as his “How's your baking going?”

They pause again after that verbal collision, to gather themselves and their wits back up. Crowley clears his throat, but Aziraphale manages to break through first.

“Oh, my baking is going splendid. I'd say I've mastered the European styles by now. I've been experimenting with some Middle Eastern breads and desserts, and some things I remember from back when we were, um, stationed in the area. But it is awfully hard to find the proper spices and ingredients for it in the shops at the moment. Essentials, you know?”

Crowley doesn't know. Crowley hasn't set foot in a supermarket for years, but the idea of Aziraphale with a shopping trolley and a bag for life and a little list of items on a torn piece of paper makes him want to spend several hours at Waitrose's looking for whatever extinct herb Aziraphale needs.

“Sounds like you need something else to pass the time.” That is not meant to sound as obvious as it does, so a quick addendum is needed. “Reread all your books by now?”

“Well, yes, actually.” Aziraphale sighs. “Ah, I decided to look around on that interweb you set up for me a while back, as well, you remember?” Crowley remembers staring down the ancient desktop pc in the bookshop and telling it to better rear up a good browser and immaculate virus protection or so help it... so a quick hum is the only reply before Aziraphale rattles on.

“And, well, there are quite a lot of people talking about things to do during the lockdown, you know. A lot of people are baking, just like me! And they’re making all kinds of very entertaining videos, and jokes, although I don’t understand all of them. I think they are very popular media related, I’m afraid.”

“You're planning to become a youtube star now? An influencer?”

“Heavens, no!” He can hear the soft smile in that, and it's almost annoying that he can despite not seeing it. He had no idea how badly he wants to see it. Well, maybe he had, but he hadn't admitted it yet. “I'm only saying, humans are coming up with the most random things to entertain themselves during this horrid time. It's quite heartwarming.”

“I suppose.”

“And everyone seems to be using this unwanted time off to try new things! They're being so creative and courageous. The young lady down the street, with the flyers, you remember? I saw her at the grocer's, and she's shaved off half her hair! It does look marvellous, I have to say.”

Well, it's not exactly surprising for Crowley to hear, he thinks, because if he'd had to peg anyone on Aziraphale's street to go straight for some queer quarantine hairstyling, it would've been her. But he doesn't get much time to think about that before Aziraphale's voice pulls him back into the very one-sided conversation.

“It's all very inspiring. And I figured, well, why not? Nobody is going to come into the shop for a while, and I'm not going out, and I've always wondered-”

“Angel.” Crowley cuts through the babbling with almost a bit of dread in his voice. “Did you shave your head? Is that what you're trying to say?”

“Oh gosh, no, nothing that extreme! Really, would you actually believe me to do that? I know you like your hair changed every few years or so, but I-”

“What did you do, then? What did Holly and her shaved head inspire you to do?”

Another round of silence on both ends of the line. Crowley prepares himself for the worst, though he has no idea what that would be.

“I've grown a beard.” Aziraphale almost whispers.

“You what?”

“I've grown a beard!” He repeats, a tad louder. “I've always wondered – there's barely any angels with facial hair, and you used to have those- I just had no idea what I might look like with one, and I thought, if not now-”

“And?”

“And what?” Aziraphale huffs.

“What do you look like?” Crowley's grin is mischievous, and his voice really shouldn't sound like this, but he can't help the teasing as he rubs across his own beard, still not vanished away by miracle. He hears a soft scratching on the other end of the line.

“It's not- it's not bad, if that's what you're expecting to hear. Although it seems a bit patchy, the colour, at least.”

“Patchy.”

“Yes, there's this bit – in the front – my chin, you see. It seems an awful lot lighter than the rest.”

“Angel, you have to expect some white hairs after six thousand years.”

“You are mocking me.” Aziraphale tuts down the line.

“I swear I'm not. It's just hard to imagine you with a beard. Never seen anything on your face, even when it was the style for humans.”

“Well you certainly won't be seeing it anyway. I'll make sure to be presentable once the lockdown is lifted.”

“What?!” Crowley interjects a bit too shocked, maybe. “You can't do that to me, angel! You can't dangle this little morsel of information in front of my face and then never let me have it!”

“I'm not going to go outside or greet customers like this only so you can have a quick laugh, old serpent.”

“You leave me no choice, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to see this beard of yours, angel. Even if it means coming over before regulations are changed.”

“Well.” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is sure he can hear a smile again, but definitely not a soft one. That bastard. “I simply can't keep you from breaking the rules, can I? You are a demon, after all. Not all your wiles can be thwarted, I guess.”

_Probably not,_ Crowley thinks as he realises he's been had,  _but you're definitely an A-class tempter._

  
  


  
  


Getting ready to go out takes him only a few moments. Getting there, however, proves more difficult.

He can't exactly drive without raising suspicions (there's one old hag on Aziraphale's street whom he knows will not be above calling the police or whatever she thinks is fitting for someone breaking 'the rules'), slithering over as a snake is wont to cause some panic if he tries to make his way halfway across London, and that whole demonic Rising From The Ground thing has never been his style – and thinking of bonking his head against Aziraphale's wooden floorboards doesn't seem enticing anyway. There's really no other option, he realises as he looks back to the office. Hopefully this time round will not leave him with quite so much nausea.

Passing the mirror in the hallway causes him to screech to a halt. He almost forgot.

A quick snap, and the beard is gone again. There is no way he's going to admit that to Aziraphale, and absolutely no way he's going to listen to his probably snide comment about previous facial hair choices. He has been (pretending to be) asleep, though. One might excuse a bit of disinterest in appearances... Another snap, and the soft stubble he's left with looks perfect, if he dare say so himself (and he does). It definitely looks better than anything else he's tried before.

Right. Time to get going. Not like he needs to preen and prep for a simple quick visit to the bookshop, really, not like he usually does that... He picks up the phone and pushes to re-dial.

“Hello! This is Aziraphale.”

“Take a few steps back.”

“Oh, Crowley! Calling – I thought you were coming over-”

“Angel. Steps back.”

He waits until he hears the little clunk of the phone being put down and a quick shuffling before jumping through. The swirling and jumbling never gets better, he realises as he ends up flat on his face between several books that were decidedly not on the floor before he appeared.

“Oh, my!” Aziraphale steps closer from his very far distance, but Crowley is already half up on his knees.

“Should've brought some wine, but I figured it'd break-” he mumbles before setting sight on Aziraphale's face, hunched down to help him up.

Now _that_ is a beard.

His hair seems to have gotten a bit longer too – no regular barber visits, obviously – but all Crowley can focus on is the big, soft blonde hair all over Aziraphale's lovely face. He can see what he meant with patchy – there are little parts of it that seem almost silvery white, especially around his chin, shining in the afternoon sun just like his hair does some times.

It looks marvellous. It looks soft. _So soft_. He has to- he has-

Aziraphale had been talking about something or other already, not noticing that the demon was giving him no attention at all – well, not to his voice, anyway. He stops, though, once he notices the hands suddenly brushing along his cheeks and settling to hold his entire face.

“Look at you!” Crowley almost coos as his thumbs swipe along the edge of the beard, across soft hairs and equally soft skin. He looks entirely enchanted, and Aziraphale can't help but smile, although he can feel the heat slowly rising on his face. They'd gotten a bit more touchy ever since Armageddon't, slowly edging closer to each other, shoulders brushing and knees knocking and gentle taps of fingertips, but nothing like this. Nowhere near it.

“I see you're sporting a bit of change yourself.” He manages to mumble with a look towards Crowley's perfectly planned 3 o'clock shadow.

Crowley, still cradling his face, only hums. “Nah, s'just from sleeping in, not like _this_.” He scratches along Aziraphale's cheeks again, through the downy hair before Aziraphale can see him realise what he's doing. His hands are dropping.

Before they can leave him completely, Aziraphale manages to catch one of them in his own, holds it against his face. Smiles. _So soft_.

“Sorry.” Crowley mumbles. “Went a bit overboard.” He tries to explain, but can't think of anything much but Aziraphale's hand holding his own, his hand on his face, the sight of his angel smiling, the scent of the bookshop slowly climbing back into his nose, the scent of cologne mixing in, the warmth under his fingertips. He's missed this. Missed it all. They used to not see each other for decades, centuries sometimes, and right now have only spent a few weeks apart – but he's missed it. Missed him. So very much, he realises at this exact moment, that it hurts.

“I'm glad you decided to break the rules, Crowley.” Aziraphale's voice is hushed, as if they're still hiding from something. “Really glad. I missed you, my dear.”

“Yeah.” Crowley echoes just as quietly. “Yeah.”

A few moments of silence pass before Aziraphale carefully, ever so slowly drops their hands from his face and turns away a bit. Something in Crowley aches.

“Would you like some wine? Or tea? It's barely past noon. I have a very nice Victoria Sponge – if you're at all hungry -”

“Yeah.” Crowley echoes once more. “Sure.”

He watches Aziraphale shuffle over to the little kitchenette, which is now sporting a good collection of etageres, cake stands and glass domes, he notices, filled with various muffins and cakes that are sure to not go off any time soon if they know what's good for them. As Aziraphale fusses over tea cups and small plates and even smaller forks, he feels the ache grow inside him even more. Time to throw himself on the sofa as melodramatically as he can, he supposes. Same procedure as every day before Lockdown.

He sits up a bit straighter as Aziraphale comes over with a tray full of goodies (the Victoria Sponge is snuggling up to quite a slice of something chocolatey, and a plate of biscuits next to it) and settles it on the table between them. He looks up as he pours him a cup, and catches Crowley's eyes staring, glasses-free and wide.

“I cannot handle this beard, angel.” Crowley looks as if he is close to touching it again, but quickly decides to be a bit more modest than that. “You look glorious.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes and looks back down at the teacup now cradled in his hands to hand over. “Thank you.”

“It makes me want to take you out to the Ritz in my red dress.” He takes the offered cup without thinking about it much. “Do you still have that suit from the 20s?”

“I do.” Aziraphale nods as he sits down in his arm chair, his own cup of tea to fidget with in his hands. “That would be quite an outing, wouldn't it?”

“Gonna make a reservation as soon as the place opens up again.” Crowley nods in reply, realising that they can do that now (once the whole human virus thing is over with, at least). He can put on his red dress and his heels and the darkest shade of lipstick he can find and take his angel in a perfectly tailored suit and a full beard to dinner and not worry about what anyone could see or think. Not worry about what might happen. (Rather, _hope_ a bit about what might happen.) He feels that constant ache twist and turn and spread up into his chest, feeling a whole lot less like a thrum of pain and much more like a soothing warmth.

“I was planning to book a visit with my barber as soon as the restrictions are lifted, actually.” Aziraphale pulls him out of his thought and makes the ache inside him drop down again, back into his stomach. Of course. Off with the beard, back to usual appearances, usual habits. Old ways. The whole world has slowed down right now, and here he is, expecting his angel to suddenly speed up.

“But I'm sure he'll have some good advice on how to care for a beard, as well. Maybe trim it just a tad.” Aziraphale scratches along his silver-white chin with a soft smile before their eyes meet again, and Crowley already mentally runs through which hairdo he's going to try out for their first date to the Ritz, after everything starts up again and their life finally moves on.

  
  


  
  



End file.
